


Historical Accuracy

by Mireille



Category: Music RPF, R.E.M.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-15
Updated: 2004-05-15
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: Fiction is a lot more fun than the truth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a complete work of fiction. The apartment complex with the graves in the alley, the mall, the Indian mounds, the Riverside Krystal, and various other bits of Macon, Georgia, are real, or at least were at the time. Some minor details are accurate. However, most of it's utterly invented--by me, mostly, but also in part by "Dave who owned the liquor store I went to in Macon in the early 90s."

There are graves almost hidden by the grass lining the alley behind their guitar player's apartment.

When they volunteer to walk up to the Minit-Mart for more beer, Bill spins a wild tale about a psychopath who buried his family in the woods to lie undiscovered until the apartment complex was built.

Mike shakes his head, pointing out that a psycho probably wouldn't want headstones marking where he'd hidden the bodies, and adds that there are two big cemeteries right across Riverside; when they put the road through, they probably just cut off some of the more neglected graves.

Bill laughs, rolling his eyes, and says that Mike's version may be more historically accurate, but it isn't any fun. Mike shrugs; it's true, and that's what counts. 

***

They're strangers in Macon, because if your grandparents weren't born here, you'll never belong. 

They'd never quite belong anyway, because when he comes home from his shift at Sears, Bill is waiting for him, closing the door and pushing Mike against it with one movement. They kiss for what feels like hours, and when Bill finally steps away, glassy-eyed and breathless, he pulls up his t-shirt to reveal the imprint of Mike's name badge. Mike apologizes, but he's not really sorry. He likes the idea that he's marked Bill.

They go out to get dinner, because the food Mike's mom sent him home with last Sunday has started growing fuzz. At the Krystal on Riverside, one of the few places cheap enough for them to go, Mike scrawls lyrics on a paper napkin and watches Bill flirt with the girl behind the counter. 

He spends a lot of time watching Bill flirt, but that's cool. Bill comes to the mall sometimes on Mike's lunch break, and they grab a burger at the McDonald's before hanging out at Camelot Music. Mike flips through the 45s, studies the racks of cassette tapes, and pretends he doesn't see that Bill's found another girl to talk to. He never does anything but talk, and if they give him their phone numbers, Mike finds them in the ashtray of Bill's car or in the kitchen garbage, so Mike doesn't much care. Really.

After they eat, they drive out Emery Highway to kill some time, singing along with the crap on WMAZ because that's the only station they can pick up. They park out by the Indian mounds on the way back, and when Mike kisses Bill, he can taste onions and mustard. Mike laughs, and tells Bill he's never kissing him with Krystal burgers on his breath again.

At rehearsal the next night, when someone suggests going to Krystal afterward, Bill says, "Hell, no," very quickly. When Mike catches his eye, they both start laughing so hard they can't breathe. Everyone else ignores them, because it's just Mills and Berry being freaks again; they're all used to that by now.

They agree to Waffle House, finally, after they all promise not to play any song with "waffle" in the title on the jukebox. Over grits and raisin toast, the guitar player talks about some Wesleyan College girl he took out to Coleman Hill on Friday night, and Mike turns red, thinking about what he did last Friday.

The others laugh, and the singer punches Mike on the arm and says, "Got to get you laid, Mills."

Bill grins. "We're working on it, right, Mikey?" 

Mike just reddens more, and shrugs.

He thinks about all the couples making out on Coleman Hill, the good Southern boys and girls--the KAs and Chi Os from Mercer, and the kids sneaking away from the basketball game at the Catholic school nearby--and then he thinks about himself and Bill, who don't belong in Macon and never will. He thinks about Friday night, which he spent kneeling on the linoleum floor of their tiny kitchen, with Bill's hands in his hair, and he decides that he knows exactly where he does belong.

***

Mike thinks Bill's started to feel it too, how they're just more out of place in Macon every day, and maybe that's why he suggests they move up to Athens--they've talked about it for a while, but until now, it's all been just talk. Before long, whatever the reason, they've packed up and gone.

Once they're past Gray, with nothing but pine trees between there and Eatonton, Mike reaches over and rests his hand on Bill's leg. Bill looks down at it for a moment before moving it away, muttering, "I don't think we should do this any more."

Mike doesn't ask him what he means, but Bill keeps talking anyway--something about making a fresh start. Mike just nods. Bill assures him they're still friends, and Mike realizes that's all they've ever been to Bill: friends who fuck, maybe, but still just friends. 

He's never really belonged with Bill, it's all just been a pretty story he's told himself to make it easier to understand what he's doing. Otherwise, this doesn't make sense, not for Mike Mills, who is a nerd at heart and doesn't do things like this, and definitely not with people like Bill.

Mike's quiet for the rest of the drive, and Bill eventually shuts up and leaves him alone. By the time they get to Athens, Mike can pretend that everything's okay again, and he sees the relief in Bill's eyes.

***

At the first party they go to, a girl wearing bubblegum-pink lipstick notices the direction Mike's looking in--the direction Mike's been looking in all night, toward the corner where, at the moment, Bill's kissing a redhead in a tight UGA t-shirt. 

Something must show on his face, because suddenly the girl's flirtatious smile vanishes, and she whispers, "I'm sorry. Is he--I mean, are you...." She trails off, obviously not knowing any way of asking it without seeming less than cool. 

She's from Unadilla, she's said at least four times, and she's keenly aware that didn't prepare her very well for this. She might fit in at a frat party, if her clothes hadn't so obviously been K-Mart blue-light specials, but not with this crowd, of whom her Sunday-school class would definitely not approve. Mike--who actually does feel at home here--feels sorry for her, remembering Macon.

"He's just a friend of mine from high school," Mike says, taking a long drink of his beer. "Well, sort of a friend," he adds, bitterly and (he knows) not entirely fairly. "He thought I was lame."

The girl nods and starts talking about the head cheerleader from back home, who hated her but is now determined to be her new best friend because they're the only girls from Dooly County at UGA. Mike only half listens, still watching Bill. 

Bill glances over, seeing the girl and giving Mike a covert thumbs-up. Mike nods, hoping Bill can't make out his facial expression.

Just a pretty story, Mike reminds himself. And suddenly, he understands that Bill was right: historical accuracy is no fun at all.

But it's true, and that's what counts.


End file.
